Fondest Imaginings
by MissMelysse
Summary: Emotion-Chip!Data/OFC. Wildly AU. One-shot. As a teenager aboard the ENTERPRISE, Zoe developed a crush on her tutor. Fifteen years later, they meet again.


_**Disclaimer: **_**Star Trek: the Next Generation**_** and Lt. Commander Data belong to Paramount. Zoe and her family belong to me. Fanfic is written for love, not money; no infringement is intended. **_

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The first time I met Data in the corridor of the ship, we had an inane conversation that left the image of his pale face and yellow eyes burned into my brain, and the sound of his voice echoing in my ears. I was twelve, then, and it had been my first visit to the _Enterprise. _The only other memory I have of that time was that of the engineering staff indulging a young girl's whim: I had ridden the lift up and down for hours.

Even that long ago, however, even when I was that young, I knew there was something between us. When I returned to the ship to live with my mother at the age of fifteen, my crush was fully formed, and while I'd have denied it had anyone bothered to confront me, I knew deep down that we were meant to be. I mean, he tends to babble, and I like to listen to him talk. There were rules in place, though, even if they were unwritten ones. He was my mother's superior officer, and my math tutor. I could perform with him in shipboard plays, and he could ensure that I passed advanced calculus and aced music theory, but I couldn't ask him to dance with me at a cast party, and even if I'd been of age, he would never have asked me to dinner. Anyway, he didn't eat.

Besides, I didn't really belong in space. Or at least, not on a Starfleet ship. My father was a celebrity conductor and composer, and I'd inherited his artistic personality, so when a theatrical troupe travelled aboard the ship, and agreed to hold a master class for theatre buffs and the older students in the ship's school, I jumped at the chance, made a pest of myself, and eventually asked for an audition. I never expected to be invited to apprentice with them, but I did, completing my last two years of compulsory education while touring the galaxy as resident ingénue, and eventually going to a university that specialized in the performing arts.

Fifteen years later, my mother was no longer a lieutenant in a starship's science department, or assigned to a ship at all. She'd been promoted to Commander and was teaching cultural geography at Starfleet Academy. She'd also remarried and was living in a house that had apparently been in our family for generations. There's something special about the people that served aboard the _Enterprise_, though - some indefinable bond that the officers and crew of other ships never quite achieve. Translation: whenever an _Enterprise_ alum was on Earth, he or she was treated like visiting family, and if the ship was in orbit there would be a number of my mother's former colleagues coming around for brunch or dinner, or whatever.

It was inevitable that Data would eventually be among those who showed up at my mother's door. That he did so while I was back in San Francisco rehearsing a new play was no mere coincidence. It was destiny.

"I have been following your career," he told me at one of my mother's dinner parties. "You have much to be proud about."

"I had a good teacher," I responded. "He insisted I learn the math behind the music, even when I didn't want to, and his lines were always book-perfect." I raised my gaze to meet his, and willed him to figure out that I was being truthful, despite the fact that I was also flirting.

His yellow eyes flicked back and forth as he searched for a reply. I saw him swallow reflexively, and wondered when he'd adopted that behavior. "Even the best teacher can only help a student find their own talent," he said. And now I was wondering when he'd learned to flirt back. "I regret that I have never seen you perform professionally."

"My new show doesn't open until after the _Enterprise_ breaks orbit," I said. "But there's an invited dress rehearsal on Tuesday. Would you like to come?"

"Yes," he said.

There was an electrical pop from elsewhere in the house, and then there was music. My mother loved to dance, and my stepfather loved to indulge her, with the end result being that these dinners always dissolved into dance parties. It was my turn for a reflexive swallow. "Data," I asked, "would you dance with me?"

He drew me into his arms with the confidence of an experienced dancer. I remembered watching him dance at a shipboard wedding, remembered the fake smile that had been plastered to his face as he guided the bride through the patterns of a formal waltz. I had looked away for a moment, and now I looked back, and noted that the smile he wore tonight was much more… natural? Organic? I couldn't find the right word. Not fake, anyway.

"Zoe," he said, "you are no longer my student."

"No," I agreed.

"Nor is your mother under my command."

"This is true." I took a breath then made my confession. "It's also true that I've wanted to dance with you since I was sixteen years old."

His steps faltered.

"I'm sorry," I said. I started to pull away, but he stood firm, and didn't allow it.

"Do not be. I do not object."

"Did you know?"

"Not until after you left the ship," he answered. "When I did realize that I was the object of your 'crush,' I was flattered. I am still. I am also intrigued. Your theatrical biography mentions my name."

"Guilty," I said. "You made a big impact in my life."

The song changed to something more appealing to my generation than my mother's and I noticed a couple of my step-father's students dancing to the faster beat. My stepfather, Ben, was a journalism professor at Berkeley, and often brought his favorite students to these parties.

"I'm guessing this kind of music isn't your style," I said. I was half-teasing, but he seemed to pick up on that.

"I am afraid not."

"Come with me." I led him down through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the third floor, which I had claimed as my space. "The producers of the show give us a housing allowance," I explained. "But most of the time I stay here. You can come in." My room, which had probably been servants' quarters centuries ago, was almost a loft and even had a small kitchenette. I closed the door, and the party noises vanished. "It's easier to talk when you can actually hear without screaming."

"Are Commander Harris's gatherings always so exuberant?"

"Some are, some aren't. Ben's students are younger than most of you Starfleet types. And a bit looser, I guess. He used to try and set me up with his grad students, but he finally gave up. I settled into a corner of my couch, kicking my shoes off. "Join me if you want," I invited. "I was dating a musician for a while," I continued after he sat. "It was nice at first, but then it fell apart."

"What happened?"

"I realized I'd been measuring him – measuring every guy I've been with – against someone who was incomparable."

"I do not understand." He was staring at me, waiting patiently to be enlightened.

"He wasn't you, Data. You may have only been my tutor, and my friend, but you made an impression. They say girls always fall for men like their fathers? My father was a great musician, but never had a successful relationship in his life. So I compared everyone to you." I waited for a long moment then said, "If you want to go now, I understand."

"I do not." And I knew he was being truthful, not just because of the whole androids-don't-lie thing, but because he recaptured my hand, and ran his thumb along the base of my palm, and when I leaned forward in response, our lips met.

Kissing Data was everything I'd ever imagined.

Being kissed _by_ Data was even better than that.

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_**Author's Note:**__ Zoe is a character who's been noodling around my brain for years, though I've never posted any fic with Data as more than a cameo character. I recognize that my interpretation of Data is nothing like that of one of my favorite storytellers, __**Javanyet**__, but the beauty of fanfic is that every interpretation is equally valid. EDIT: 11 November 2010 - I've revised this to make it more consistent with the pre-quel, CRUSH, currently in (slow) progress.  
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